


Miss Levinson of Cincinnati

by madamedarque



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Misses Clause Challenge, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 20:51:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madamedarque/pseuds/madamedarque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A terribly awkward situation, of course. A breach of professional etiquette. Carson would be scandalized. But he wasn’t here, and there was a frightened and lonely young woman in front of her, separated by an ocean from everything familiar to her and married into a great family who seemed to speak their own language, one they did not deign to share with her and which she could not hope to interpret.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miss Levinson of Cincinnati

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bushgirl (cotterford1)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cotterford1/gifts).



 

There were no secrets at Downton Abbey. News that originated in His Lordship’s study around mid-morning might well be the topic of choice in the servant’s hall over afternoon tea, and all due to the efforts of one particularly industrious housemaid.

One had to be discreet, of course. There was Mr. Carson the new butler, swooping in and out officiously; and his accomplice Elsie Hughes, the equally over-bearing head housemaid, always ready to glower and bellow or, in the latter’s case, cluck disapprovingly. But Sarah O'Brien had realized very early that she was cleverer than most people, and far more discreet.

She whispered what she had heard to another maid, Hannah, as they were making the bed in Her Ladyship’s bedroom. The old cow was a terrifically messy sleeper, and she always managed to disturb the spotless linen so that it all bundled into an undignified ball at the feet of the mattress. Perhaps the mess was the result of some scandalous nightly exertions, or perhaps she thrashed about the blankets and sleep-walked through the corridors, weeping over her sins. But both unrestrained passion and remorse of any kind sounded entirely unlike the Countess of Grantham.

Hannah was delighted at the news. Sarah had embellished a bit, because the girl was so amusingly gullible. Besides, the engagement would come off. Not a penniless baronet’s daughter for the viscount, oh no! Miss Levinson of Cincinnati would bring with her the necessary dowry to support the running of a great house, and the Countess could sob into her sheets with abandon for all the good it would do her.

“I suppose she’s very beautiful,” Hannah said dreamily, plumping the pillows with abandon. “And made quite an impression in London. All the gentlemen will have wanted to dance with her.”

“She could be ugly as a Hapsburg and all the titled young men would dance with her,” said Sarah drily, “considering she’s just as rich.”

Hannah scowled. “You’re a terror, Miss O’Brien,” she said. “You’ll never find a husband with that tongue.”

Sarah sighed and smoothed the freshly pressed sheets. Did she mind the prospect? She would not spend the rest of her life making the beds of eccentric aristocrats with a tiresome little fool like Hannah, she knew that. But what else was there besides service? Marriage? What was marriage but a lifetime of penury and unpaid labor, perpetually attached to some ill-educated farm boy with missing teeth and poor manners? She would rather scrub floors until the day she died than wipe the sniveling noses of an ever-growing brood of children.

If one were like the fabled Miss Levinson, Sarah thought as she followed Hannah down to the laundry, things could be different. One might have even fewer choices—what did a rich girl do, if not get married—but at least there would be some material consolations. What would Miss Levinson choose if she had the chance? Did she want to marry the viscount?

The woman loomed in Sarah’s mind, absurdly, as a kind of amalgam of every fanciful fairy story she had ever heard in her childhood, stories of fair ladies who spent their days in charming idleness, sewing and singing, waving their silk handkerchiefs from the window to the adoring men who went to battle for them. God! What a fool she was. She was not a lady, nor—as her mother had been fond of reminding her—was she very fair. She had never met Miss Levinson and had no reason to care whether she lived or died. If they did meet it would be like seeing a mirage through the rain; a distorted figure, impossible to grasp but full of imagined colors.

**********

Sarah was right, of course. She usually was. The viscount was duly engaged to Miss Levinson by the New Year, and there was an appalling row between the Countess, the Earl, and Lord Robert on the subject, with Lady Rosamund weeping hysterically and decrying the disillusion of her house.

Sarah gathered all this under the pretense of dusting the china outside the dining room, and was just preparing to return to the kitchen and relay this information to the buxom and generous Mrs. Pattmore when Elsie Hughes came barreling around the corner with a dangerous glint in her eyes.

“And just what do you think you’re doing?” Elsie had a way of bringing a sense of moral outrage to all infractions, no matter how minor. She was only a few years older than Sarah, and pretty in a rather earthy way, if one liked that sort of thing. Sarah suspected that Mr. Carson did. But she had yet to gather the necessary evidence on that score.

Instead she stood up and said innocently, “Cleaning, Elsie.”

Elsie frowned, but as usual Sarah had been careful to add only the lightest dusting of insolence to her response. It was really too easy, baiting her; it would be all too tempting to step over the line. But Sarah did not intend to be under the thumb of jumped-up head housemaids and butlers much longer.

“Well, see that you get to the drawing room. Hannah needs your help with the curtains. I’ll finish up here.”

“Yes, Miss.” Sarah curtsied, her eyes downcast. As she turned to go, she heard a crash and shout that made both of them jump.

“By God, Violet, do you want to see the end of Downton? That’s what you will see if we do not proceed! Shall you see my life’s work dismantled--”

“I shall not see my son wedded to a girl of no experience or social graces, the daughter of an entrepreneur in a vulgar industry, an _American_ \--”

Lord Robert’s voice broke in. “Mama, be reasonable!”

Elsie looked stricken, but Sarah stifled a laugh. Poor Miss Cora Levinson of Cincinnati was in for an unpleasant surprise: a spiteful and snobbish termagant of a mother-in-law, along with a husband who had married her grudgingly and only for duty. For a moment she felt sorry for the girl, which was a ridiculous sentiment. Why should she feel sorry for a woman who had everything she did not, who would not glance at her twice in the street, who would walk over her on the steps to the altar? Sarah wiped her palms on her apron, and could not answer.

**********

It was to be a summer wedding. The grounds were a glorious symphony of pinks and greens, and no expense had been spared for the arrival of the future Countess of Grantham. The road was strewn with flowers at Elsie’s orders; which, Sarah thought, was a rather over-wrought gesture.

On the day of Miss Levinson’s arrival the entire household lined up outside the house, like a row of infantry. Lord Grantham as usual looked fragile, while the Countess, she of the iron constitution, was standing stiffly under the weight of an enormous and florid hat, her angular features compressed into an expression of disapproval. Lord Robert was a paragon of composure, but as the carriage approached Sarah saw him quickly run a hand through his hair.

The carriage stopped, and Stoakes opened the door. Miss Levinson laid a dainty foot on that fine English gravel, with the tepidity of an explorer long at sea at last setting foot on dry land.

She was twenty-two years of age, Sarah knew. Her dress was fashionable—too fashionable, perhaps, for Lady Rosamund and Her Ladyship, as it spoke eloquently of glamorous London experiences far from the confines of Downton. Her waist was slender and her posture graceful. Her dark hair was coiled at the nape of her neck. Not at all an uncultured savage, despite what the Countess might say. It was the skin that drew the eye—dazzlingly white, like the inside of a lily. What must it cost to shield that skin from the elements, to maintain its unblemished perfection? Expensive things: parasols, gloves, high collars. Sarah caught only a glimpse of her eyes—startlingly blue—before the girl curtsied to her hosts.

Lord Robert bowed and His Lordship made the necessary greetings. Miss Levinson answered cordially, and lifted her bonnet with a gloved hand, staring up at the great house with frank awe. Even the Countess looked mollified.

“I would wager,” Sarah heard her whisper to Lady Rosamund as they went in, “that she doesn’t see such things in Cincinnati!”    

**********

How curious to be a foreigner in a strange land. There was nothing in the outward appearance of Miss Levinson—now Lady Crawley, as Mr. Carson reminded the servants frequently—to mark her as an outsider. Her strange, luminous beauty seemed to have won over her father-in-law and much of the staff, and her accent was charmingly novel.  Some of the more foolish housemaids, Hannah included, made a game of getting her to pronounce certain words, in order to titter at the strange pronunciations.

And yet she very clearly did not belong. Since the wedding the Countess had spoken to her coldly and only on sufferance, and Lady Rosamund had followed her mother’s lead. The new Lady Crawley seemed overwhelmed by the sheer scale of the house; its cavernous halls and vast surfaces, unused rooms and gilded ceilings. From what Sarah could observe the viscount was never anything but civil to her. Yet it was hardly a love match.

“It seems cruel,” sighed Hannah, her hands submerged in the soapy bucket. “Lady Crawley being so pretty and graceful. She’s always so kind. Just yesterday, she said ‘excuse me, Hannah.'” Imagine that! Lord Robert’s young wife knowing my name!”

“She doesn’t know how to speak properly to servants,” said Sarah mercilessly, sopping the water on the floor. “It’s her American upbringing.”

“But surely even you can’t dislike her! She’s like a daisy, fresh and unspoiled.”

A familiar voice boomed behind them. “Thank you for your contribution, Hannah.” It was unnerving, the way Carson could contrive to appear at the most inconvenient moments. “In the future we shall try not to compare the viscount’s wife and future mistress of Downton to horticulture of any kind.”

“Yes, Mr. Carson,” said Hannah weakly.

“Elsie would like to see you in the kitchen.”

Hannah nodded and quickly shot away, leaving Sarah alone with Carson. He was looking at her with a vaguely thoughtful expression. She got to her feet slowly, wiping her hands.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Carson?” she asked mildly.

 “As you know,” he said, his usual brisk tones faltering slightly, “Elsie has been seeing to Lady Crawley in addition to her other duties. But she’s been ill lately and, we—well, I, believe it’s a result of the strain. You understand.”

“Of course.” Although she kept her tone neutral, Sarah felt some emotion stirring underneath, disturbing the placid surface. Something long dormant.

“I was wondering if you might wait on Lady Crawley, at least for this week. Elsie may protest that she is entirely able to perform all her duties, but I believe it is in the best interests of Downton that she be allowed a bit of rest. If you do not object.”

“Not at all.”

“Well, that’s all right then. You start tomorrow. Elsie will instruct you in the basic techniques.”

Then he was gone, his polished shoes leaving a faint track on the wet floor. Sarah stood by the bucket and the rags, suddenly unable and unwilling to continue the job. She felt curiously lightweight, as if the world had flung wide open. A lady’s maid! That’s what she would be. To be a lady’s maid was to act as a trusted confidante; to travel widely with her mistress; to make a decent income in support of her newfound urbanity. No need to kowtow to anyone, or marry—God, no marriage. Glorious freedom! She could taste it on the tip of her tongue.

Suddenly the thing she could not name a moment ago was pressing down upon her. What was it? She struggled to name the foreign word, the answer to a question she had not asked but now knew to be vital. _Ambition_. It had been lost to her in those days on the farm, feeding the chickens, clearing out the slop, working in the garden, shucking the corn, caring for children that were not hers.  Now it returned, like an old friend.

She embraced it, for nothing else had ever embraced her half so kindly.

********** 

“Help me, O’Brien.”

Lady Crawley crying in her nightclothes. She was not a pretty weeper, which Sarah found rather gratifying; the lily-colored skin swelled up and turned red, and the bright little blue eyes appeared even smaller, lost in the folds of her face. She hiccupped as well, between great heaving sobs.

A terribly awkward situation, of course. A breach of professional etiquette. Carson would be scandalized. But he wasn’t here, and there was a frightened and lonely young woman in front of her, separated by an ocean from everything familiar to her, and married into a great family who seemed to speak their own language, one they did not deign to share with Miss Levinson and which she could not hope to interpret.

Sarah placed a hand on her shoulder.

Lady Crawley— _Cora_ , uttered a voice somewhere in the recesses of her mind—turned her face towards Sarah’s hand and bowed her head. Her hair brushed against Sarah’s knuckles.

“If there’s anything I can do, my Lady…”

“Nothing, of course. I shouldn’t be behaving like this.” She sat up suddenly, brushing a sleeve across her wet cheeks. “I’ve embarrassed you. I’m sorry.”

“No…not at all, my Lady.”

The Crawleys have been very gracious to me,” she said firmly.

“Not Her Ladyship,” said Sarah. The words seemed to tumble out, with no regard for the consequences.

Lady Crawley looked at her sharply, and for a moment Sarah thought she had made a mistake. Then the corners of the aristocratic mouth turned up slightly. Her tears were drying in streaks down her white face, and strands of her hair had fallen untidily from her chignon, giving her a slightly savage appearance. In such a state, and to a servant, one could say almost anything.

“I don’t know what I’ve done wrong,” Lady Crawley said softly, and Sarah could sense the floodgates opening; the pent-up frustration of almost six months of petty slights and snide comments.

They were conspiratorial. Sarah pulled up a chair. Later, she reflected that the poor girl just needed a friend. They were almost the same age, after all. And a lady’s maid should be like a friend to her mistress.

The next day she darned Lady Crawley’s socks and mended her underskirts, floating on a cloud.

**********

“Come on, O’Brien!” Now Cora was running up the gently sloping hill, her lace veil floating behind her. She had taken off her shoes, revealing a glimpse of her silk stockings when she lifted her skirts. Sarah followed, somewhat stiffly.

They reached the top. Cora gave a final laugh and fell down on the grass. She moved her arms above her head, like a child making the shapes of angels in the snow.

“There’s nothing like an English spring, O’Brien,” she said languidly.

“Yes, my Lady.”

This was a strange mood. Sarah sat down beside her, keeping a careful distance between herself and the trail of Cora’s dress, carelessly draped over the grass.

“Dear O’Brien.” Cora propped herself up on her elbows, smiling fondly at her. Those blue eyes could be disconcertedly direct. “Can you keep a secret?”

Sarah tried to look encouraging. Cora made a habit of confiding in her about many household matters as well as her frustrations with the Countess, but recently Sarah had felt…not less trusted, exactly, but less _confided in_. As if the force of Cora’s passions were directed towards a different source.

“You know you can trust me, my Lady.”

“Of course I can.” She breathed deeply, and exhaled in something like a giggle. “I’m going to have a baby.”

It was inevitable that this should happen. Sarah had been expecting it, in fact. It was Cora’s duty to provide heirs to ensure the dynastic security of the Crawley house. Why then did her congratulations feel particularly hollow?

“I can hardly believe it,” said Cora. “You remember how wretched I was, O’Brien. But now that’s another life. Robert has changed everything.”

“Does the viscount know, my Lady?”

Cora blushed. “I told him last week. We’re going to wait a bit before informing Lord Grantham. But I simply couldn’t keep the secret from you. You’d know soon enough, anyway.”

Cora continued prattling on, requiring minimal input from Sarah. Had it ever been otherwise? Perhaps—in those few giddy weeks after Cora had wept on her hands. But now she was merely an amusement; a diverting enough attendant, but not a true companion. She was not expected to offer any insights of her own.

The problem, Sarah realized, was that Cora had fallen in love with her husband. This was the wedge that had driven them apart. Immediately she scolded herself. Would she rather that Cora cried?

“Are you all right, dear? You look a bit queer.” Cora was looking up at her, shading her eyes in that familiar gesture. Suddenly Sarah saw her at this time last year; a girl dressed in white lace, gazing up at the grand house.

“Perfectly fine, my Lady.”

“Nonsense. Being pregnant isn’t an excuse for being selfish.” She laughed. “I’ve been so wrapped up in myself that I hadn’t noticed. You’ve been looking ill since we went out. Come. We’ll be missed.”

Cora got to her feet with sudden briskness and started back down towards the house, breaking into a run when she reached the bottom of the hill. A gust of wind nearly upset her hat, and she reached up to steady it. Following at a safe distance, Sarah decided that if she lived long enough to be a bitter old maid, she would always remember Cora as she was now; giddy and breathless, her cheeks flushed with pink, dashing away towards an enviable future.

And where was Miss Sarah O’Brien? Behind her, as usual, in case Lady Crawley should slip and fall.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place roughly from 1889 to 1890. Lady Mary was born in 1891, so I thought it was plausible that Cora could be pregnant in about May/June of 1890--which also lines up with Robert's assertion that he fell in love with Cora about a year after they married.
> 
> British titles can be dicey, but for the purposes of this story I've decided that Robert was known by the courtesy title of Viscount Crawley before his father's death. Which is why Cora becomes Lady Crawley upon marriage to Robert. I've read from several sources that Cora's maiden name was Levinson (according to the Downton Abbey wiki she was the daughter of Cincinnati dry goods multi-millionaire Isadore Levinson).
> 
> Also, to my recipient: I'm sorry this did not become a Christmas story! I tried, I swear I did. But apparently my brain wanted to write pre-canon about Cora and Miss O'Brien, not Christmas shenanigans involving pranks on Bates. But I hope it does something for you anyway. Happy Holidays to all!


End file.
